


These are the Days

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, bc Fitz' dad is a dickbiscuit, if there was a rating between G and T this would probably be that, mild verbal abuse including some ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:23:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: And the world is calling us, but not just yetThese are the days we'll never forget.-A story about Fitz' childhood, and a mother who loves & encourages him, even after his father leaves them both.





	

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This fic contains mild verbal abuse and some ableist language (not condoned; Fitz' dad is a dick). There are two uses of the word "r*tard". Again not condoned & characters call it out, but heads up.
> 
> Title & quote from 'These are the Days' by Avicii.

It was evening, and Leopold Fitz and his mother sat outside, soaking in the last of the day’s rare sunshine.

Well, his mother sat. In an old white wrought-iron chair, under the biggest tree in their tiny yard, the only one worth climbing. Fitz had been clambering through it, over and around it for the better part of the day. He played and drew and read up there, as if it was as natural as walking. His mother was used to it by now and loved to watch – even if the occasional slip still set her heart to racing.

She sat under the tree with a glass of lemonade in the clumpy grass at her feet, out of the way in case her son should fall. Fitz dangled contentedly, upside-down, telling her about how he wished he had a tail and asking why the trees here were so small and begging her to take him to the library for his school project.

“We’re doing the Savannah,” he said. “We have to pick an African animal and do a report.”

“Oh, and what animal are you going to pick?” his mother asked with a smile. He studied her expression, unable to tell from this angle whether she was messing with him or not. It was obvious.

“Monkeys,” he said. “There’s got to be some kind of monkey in Africa.”

His mother pursed her lips.

“There aren’t many trees on the Savannah though,” she said. “We might have to look extra hard.”

“Baboons don’t need trees.”

“Perhaps you could do your project on baboons, then?” his mother offered.

“I’ll see,” Fitz said. “When we go the library. My head hurts.”

His mother laughed. His face was bright red.

“Maybe you should stop hanging upside-down for a bit, then. All the blood in your toes is going to your head!”

“Really?”

She stood up and reached her arms out. He mimicked her, uncertainly, but well enough for her to wrap her arms around him and help him slide off the tree.

“Do you want to do a flip?” she asked. “You’re already halfway there! Ready?”

She turned him gently, slowly, always in control and Fitz giggled as she set his feet back on the ground.

“It’s almost time for tea,” she said. “Better wash up!”

“But I thought we were going to the library!” Fitz groaned.

“It’ll be closed now. We’ll have to go tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

“Pinky-promise.”

She held a pinky finger up to him. He wrapped his fist around it. That wasn’t how pinky-promises were supposed to work, he knew, but whenever he tried to do it properly it seemed he couldn’t separate the function of his fingers from each other all of a sudden. This seemed to work for him instead and his mother never argued. She only smiled as, heartened, he ran inside, and then came back out a moment later to collect the book and toy he’d left out.

“Good boy,” she praised, murmuring it to herself as she watched him climb the stairs with a great deal of determination and enthusiasm. She picked up and drained her glass of lemonade, and spied her husband standing in the doorway, almost glaring.

“Why don’t you teach him to do it properly?” he asked, voice gruff.

She shrugged.

“It’s what we’ve always done. A little quirk of his. I don’t mind.”

“You can’t just let him do things wrong, Evie,” her husband scolded. “What if he starts acting like that at school? What’ll the other kids think? What’ll his teachers think?”

“He’s a good boy, Art,” Evelyn insisted. “He’ll be fine. And if some kids don’t want to be friends with him because he can’t wrap his finger around theirs, then they’re missing out on a brilliant friend. And a lot of information about monkeys. Did you know baboons can live on savannas?”

Arthur huffed.

-

Fitz didn’t make many friends at school. He never got the opportunity to display the fact that he couldn’t properly grasp the art of the pinky-swear. He did, however, get told off with increasing frequency for hogging construction materials in D&T and at free-play time, and for doodling in his margins before he’d finished his work. When he failed a test because of this, his parents were called in for a consultation. He sat on the chair between them, on his hands, kicking his legs.

“Leopold,” his father hissed. “Sit still.”

He tried, he really did, but his legs got to kicking of their own accord. He felt squirmy in the chair. He wanted to go outside. He’d already spent all day at school, why did he have to sit here longer?

“Leo, hey,” his mother crooned. “Enough of that, please.”

He scowled. He really was trying. Maybe if he found something to play with he wouldn’t be so bored. He turned around in his seat, climbing onto his knees to look over the back of the chair at the shelves of toys and puzzles at the back of the classroom. Maybe he could sit down there while the adults had their meeting?

His mother tapped his arm.

“Sit properly, Leopold,” she instructed. “I know it’s boring, but sometimes we all have to sit still and listen. Mrs Gladstone just wants to help you.”

Pouting, Fitz sat facing forward. He crossed his arms and frowned as hard as he could, intentionally making his displeasure as obvious as possible. They still didn’t let him get up, but at least he could kick his legs without complaint.

He ignored what happened during the meeting, but his father was conspicuously silent on the drive home, and clenched the steering wheel hard. His mother was silent too.

Evelyn tapped her fingers on the cover of the mental-maths book Fitz’ teacher had given them, and even opened it a few times to try a few of the questions. It had been a while since she’d trained her brain for these activities, and a stone settled in her chest at the thought that she might not even be able to help Fitz with his primary school homework. Mentally, his father was in more of a position to do that, but she wondered if that was the best strategy. Both of her boys became easily frustrated by each other, and that was going to get them into trouble one of these days.

“We just have to knuckle down on him,” Arthur said that evening, when she voiced these concerns as gently as she could. “He needs discipline, Evie.”

“Sure,” she agreed uncertainly. Art’s head tilted and he reached out, concerned, and ran a hand gently down her arm.

“What is it?” he asked. “He’ll be alright, you know. He’ll brighten up once we get him on the right track.”

“I don’t – I don’t think that’s the problem,” Evelyn objected. “He’s very smart.”

“Reciting facts about monkeys doesn’t make him smart,” Art returned. “Any retard can do that.”

Evelyn recoiled, and took herself to the other side of the bench and busied herself with the dishes. Her chest felt tight, her eyes smarting with tears of frustration and offence. She thought of Fitz upstairs, and wondered if he could hear all this. Wondered what he would make of it.

“Oh, come on,” Art sighed.

“You know I don’t like that word,” she scolded.

“I just meant our kid’s not like that. He just needs to prove it, you know?”

“Stop it!” Evelyn yelped. “If you actually had a conversation with your son –“

“How can I? He won’t look me in the eyes!”

“Stop trying to make him, then!”

“He needs to act like a person, Evie!”

“He _is a person!”_ She slapped the sponge down into the sink, and it spat soapy water onto her face. She turned to Art, jabbing a finger at him over the bench. “He’s a ten year old! He’s a brilliant and kind little boy and yes he needs to learn to share and how to pass tests but he also needs you to treat him with respect. He needs you to believe in him! Spend time with him! Be an example to him instead of just correcting him _all_ the _time.”_

Art scowled.

“I’m just looking out for him.”

“So am I.”

“I’m just as much his parent as you are. Not everything you say goes.”

“I’m not trying to control you! I’m asking you to show a little love to our son, in a way that he might actually comprehend!”

Tears crept onto her cheeks. All of a sudden she wanted nothing more than to run up to Fitz’ room and wake him up just to hug him until he fell asleep again.

“Take him to the library,” she offered.

“I can’t. I have to work.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. They both knew he had to work, of course, but that wasn’t _the point._

“Ask him about capuchins sometime then,” she suggested. “They’re his favourite. Or hell, teach him about the car, I don’t know. He got out a book on aeroplanes the other day. Talk about that. He _wants_ to learn!”

“You teach him, then!”

Fuming, Evelyn couldn’t respond. She wanted to say that she didn’t know enough, couldn’t comprehend enough to follow the rate at which Fitz developed and learnt when he wanted to, but she couldn’t do that without undermining her own demands. Silently, internally, she steeled herself to defend her son further, but Art didn’t push. He excused himself and went upstairs, and Evelyn finished washing the dishes, feeling quite out of sorts and alone. Could she do this, could she teach him on her own? Would she ever be able to make Art see the inherent worth in Fitz? Could she ever reconcile them? And…would she ever truly, in her heart, forgive Art for treating Fitz this way?

When she was done with the dishes, Evelyn snuck into Fitz’ room and pulled a chair up beside his bed, hugging a pillow and watching him sleep like she had used to do when he was a baby. Only, he wasn’t asleep.

“Mummy,” he whispered, opening his eyes all of a sudden and making Evelyn jump. “Did you and Daddy have a fight?”

“Just a little one, sweetie,” she confessed, even though she still felt a little sick over it.

“Was it because of me?”

“No, no,” she crooned. “It was just because your Dad and I have different ideas about how to help you, that’s all. It’s not your fault.”

“I know I need to share more, but I like building. I like finishing things. Sometimes I need all the stuff.”

“I love the things you build, too,” his mother praised. “But other children like to build things too, don’t they? And they need stuff too, right? You can’t be the only one who gets to build.”

Fitz hummed. “That’s true. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better.”

“Good boy,” Evelyn praised, and smiled. Fitz hugged his stuffed monkey tighter. He wasn’t smiling exactly, but it was as good as.

“And what about your maths?” Evelyn asked. “Is it too hard?”

Fitz shook his head stubbornly, as well as he could with one ear to the pillow.

“It’s too easy.”

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“They already know I can do it, but they make us all do it every day. It’s retarded.”

“Hey.” Evelyn leaned forward and put a hand on his monkey, just enough of a threat to take it away that he would take her seriously. “We don’t use that word, okay? It’s a very nasty word that only mean people use.”

“Da used it,” Fitz complained.

“He was being nasty. Promise me you won’t use it any more.”

Fitz nodded slowly.

“Good boy,” Evelyn said, and let go of the monkey with a foul taste in her mouth. Fitz tucked it closer, apologetic.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Speaking of which,” Evelyn consciously hushed her tone. She pulled Fitz’ doona up to his shoulders. “You should be asleep, mister.”

He closed his eyes obediently, and she smiled. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, and stroked his curls one last time before sneaking back out of the room and going to bed herself.

-

In the end it was not Evelyn’s decision whether or not her husband and her son would ever find a middle ground. In fact, she didn’t get a choice in the matter at all, not even an ultimatum, and hardly even any notice.

“I’m leaving,” Art told her, over tea one afternoon. “I can’t watch you raise our son like this.”

Confusion dimmed her response at first. She almost thought she’d misheard, or that he must be joking, or that he must not be implying what she thought he was implying. But there was so much wrong with it; with what he said, with the worldview it betrayed. That she was the only one raising _their son_ – if it was true, it was only out of Arthur’s inaction. That she was doing it wrong – but how could she be, when Fitz was running around outside as free as a bird, with a wooden plane he had constructed from a model kit in his hand, moving up and down as he ran it through the air.

(He didn’t make the engine noises. He didn’t like the feeling of raspberrying his lips. When he’d explained this, quite matter-of-factly, his mother had found some model gliders on the internet and would be very pleased to tell him, when they arrived, that some planes had no engine at all and that these ones would even be able to fly).

“You’re leaving?” Evelyn repeated belatedly. “…When?”

“Tonight. A friend’s meeting me in Denver.”

“Denver.” She’d heard of it before, but it took a second. “Colorado? _America?”_

Art shrugged and opened the fridge. “I’m clearly not welcome here, so…”

Evelyn stared, open-mouthed, as Art pulled out the materials to make a sandwich. He stood in front of her, building it as if he’d mentioned popping down to the shops for milk. Not moving out of the country. Not leaving them forever.

“But what about Leo?” Evelyn asked.

“Kid doesn’t need me. Hates me, probably. Wouldn’t listen to me anyway. ‘Sides, wasn’t it you that said I don’t love him?”  
  
“I never said that.”

“Well maybe it’s true. Either way he’s not keeping me here. He’s not keeping me where I’m not wanted.”

“Art-“

“Evelyn.”

She had reached out for him, and halted. There was a bubble in her chest and all of a sudden she could feel it, full to bursting. _Surface tension,_ Fitz had explained once, dripping water onto a coin. Eventually, there would be one too many, and the whole thing would run over. Memories filled her heart, of meeting Art. Of him offering her flowers, courting her like a gentleman, of them going to the pictures on weekends and meeting each other at work. Of getting married – they’d had horses, and coffee-cake, and the most ridiculous dress. Memories of moving into this house, the first and only house either of them had ever owned, and painting it together. Her, making him dinner. Kissing. Making love. Making Fitz.

All of it piled and piled like droplets of water on a coin, and Evelyn found it hard to breathe. Shouldn’t something happen now? Shouldn’t she beg him to stay? Tell him she loved him?

“Art,” she breathed again, trying to conjure the words, the feelings, anything beyond the sinking revelation that _she’d loved him._ “Please don’t-“

“It’s already decided, Evie,” he said, his voice low. “This is just a courtesy.”

He took the plate and sandwich upstairs. To their room, presumably. To pack, presumably. And Evelyn was left at the kitchen bench, quivering with emotion, wondering what had just happened.

She put the mayonnaise away.

-

The next day, Evelyn woke to an empty bed. An empty bathroom. An empty wardrobe. An empty kitchen.

“He’s really done it,” she whispered. Art never had been one for empty promises. Or threats. That had once been something she’d quite admired about him, but now she despised it. Now, it left her and her son with no husband, no father. No mind great enough for Fitz. It left her with a mortgage that wasn’t paid off, a barely-scraping income from her casual work, and - when she got to the garage she realised – no car.

Evelyn swore loudly in a growl, and slammed her fist against the doorframe.

“You told me not to say that,” Fitz interjected.

“Sorry, sweetie.” Mustering all her strength, Evelyn turned to face her son. “I got surprise, that’s all. A very bad surprise.”

Fitz padded curiously up to her, and peered around into the empty garage.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked. It was too early for work and there were no dishes in the sink yet. “Did he go on a holiday without us? Or was there an emergency? Or does the car need to get fixed? Or -”

Evelyn kneeled and put hand on his shoulder gently, hushing him.

“No emergency, sweetie, and your dad hasn’t gone on a holiday. Come and sit down in the kitchen and I’ll tell you all about it, okay?”

She could have sworn that he could see the pain and anger and sorrow in her eyes. His face fell solemn and he nodded, and walked back to the kitchen with the heavy gate of a much older, much wiser man. Evelyn wiped her eyes once she was out of sight, and then followed him, pouring them each a glass of water on the way to give her more time to think about what to say. She refused to lie, or to give Art any more credit than he deserved, but she could hardly stomach the thought of letting Fitz believe his father had left because he didn’t love him.

Try as she did, though, she couldn’t help but leave him with that distinct impression. By the end of her explanation, Fitz was crying, and when, after it all, she asked if he was okay, he ran outside. He didn’t feel like climbing the tree, so he kicked it instead. He threw the toy plane he’d been playing with the previous day, and it nose-dived into the ground and broke. That made it worse, made him angry, and he hit the trunk of the tree with his bare hands until he had splinters and scratches and the tears in his eyes were as much out of physical pain and frustration as heartbreak.

“Leo! Leopold!” his mother cried, once she realised what he was doing. “Stop that, please!”

And eventually he did, and let her help calm him down, and usher him inside where she cleaned his scratches.

“You mustn’t hurt yourself when you’re angry, Leo,” she scolded. “I know it hurts a lot, what your father did, but please, look after yourself.”

He avoided her eyes, and mumbled an apology so soft she didn’t hear it. His face was still red and blotchy and tears were still streaming, so she didn’t chase it. When his wounds were clean – none of them serious – she nudged him into a hug. It was a little inside out, as usual – he’d always preferred to be on the outside – but it worked just the same and Fitz calmed and eventually, the tears stopped.

“Are you okay, Mum?” he asked.

“I have you, my beautiful boy,” she assured him, brushing his curls with her fingers. “I’ll be just fine.”

He contemplated her words, and the way she’d said them, and the way her face was still hidden from him, like she was still crying.

“D’you know what makes me happy?” he offered jovially, and his mother smiled at the offer.

“I don’t know, sweetie,” she replied, as usual. “What?”

“I’ll show you.”

Fitz pulled away without ceremony and ran up the stairs. He fell to his knees by his bed and pulled out a shoebox, and carried it back down with him. His mother watched as he pulled out three film canisters and set them on the kitchen bench, then dug through the cupboard with the steadfast ease and familiarity of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

“Aspirin and water,” Fitz explained. “It’s really cool. Watch.”

He beckoned his mother to follow him outside, carrying an armful of materials with an enthusiastic grin. This time Evelyn let the tears dry on her cheeks as she leaned in the doorway and watched him fuss over the film canisters. He set two of them aside and worked on the third, inserting aspirin tablet in the indented part of the lid, on the inside, and then pouring a little water into the container itself. He put the lids back on, careful not to dislodge the pills yet, and then glanced over his shoulder to check that his mother was watching.

“So you flip it,” he explained, doing so as he said it. “And then wait.”

He stepped back, into the doorway to stand beside her, and they watched –

\- and watched -

and watched.

“Sometimes you wait a while,” Fitz joked. And then, a second later, the canister popped off its lid and sailed into the sky. Fitz ran out and his mother followed, peering upward to try and catch its zenith. It must have reached the top of the tree, at least.

“Amazing!” Evelyn gasped, and felt the smile in her cheeks. “That’s brilliant, Leo! How did you figure that out?”

“We did it at school! Here, you have a turn.”

He was already kneeling beside the canisters he’d previously set aside, setting up one while his mother approached the one he’d set aside for her. He checked on it and beamed back at her.

“Okay, ready?”

“Ready.” Evelyn nodded, preparing with every ounce of drama he had.

“Three…two…one…”

They flipped them over, and laughed at the anticlimactic seconds of waiting. They bundled themselves back into the doorway, out of the way of any spray or shrapnel, and when their miniature rockets popped they ran out from their cover to investigate.

“Mum!” Fitz cried. “You totally won!”

“No! Really?” His mother glanced at the sky, unsure of the heights they’d managed to reach, and even which canister was hers.

“Rematch!”

Fitz dove for the packet of aspirin and set his up again, and his mother met the challenge with admirable fire. Together they fired their rockets into the sky, and though their world was changing around them and they’d wake up tomorrow with more struggles than they’d ever faced so far, for now at least they had smiles on their faces. Soon they stopped hiding from the explosions, and smiled at the sky as water rained down on them, blessing them with a new start.

“I love you, Leo,” his mother said, once they’d run out of aspirin. Fitz sighed contentedly.

“I love you too.”


End file.
